


The Strength To Rise

by clockworkcuttlefish



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcuttlefish/pseuds/clockworkcuttlefish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No AO3 I don't want to tag things this is just too long to post on tumblr. :|</p><p>In Your Heart Shall Burn crap with my mage quizzy Austeja Trevelyan. A few fluffy Quizzy/Cullen things in the middle of the horror. Lots of quoting a certain character word for word, and more than one broken bone. </p><p>I don't know, I got the idea for this the first time I ran through IYHSB and I've probably been working on this two and a half weeks or so. So whatever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strength To Rise

Austeja jumped a couple times, trying to settle the shaking in her hands, before dropping down to the floor of the shattered Temple of Sacred Ashes. Cassandra and Solas followed, and the mages lined up behind them. She glanced back – Cullen stood behind the back row of mages, and he gave her a small smile. She echoed it, then jumped a couple more times. It did nothing to settle her nerves.

“You ready?” Cassandra murmured. Austeja shook her head, smiled weakly at her, and started forward.

Cullen gripped the stone railing of the Temple balcony, ignoring the dust under his hands. Austeja looked tiny on the floor below, stretching out her hand towards the Breach as Solas yelled instructions back at the other mages. “ _Come on come on come on_ ,” Cullen breathed, barely recognizing that he was repeating it or that he couldn’t tell whether he’d rather have the Breach safely closed or Austeja safe elsewhere, as far away as possible.

She thrust her arm towards the sky, green streaming from her hand and into the Breach above. The mages around him knelt and he could feel power surge around him, pouring towards the small figure standing alone against the Fade. He gripped the crumbling banister harder, small pieces of stone breaking in his hand. She screamed and the rail broke completely under his hands before he realized it’d been the same sort of cry any warrior in the field would have made when charging their enemy.

Then, white. Pure and bright, light burst from the Breach and the mark and nearly blinded him with the force. A few mages next to him were thrown back into the wall or staggered to their knees. He caught himself on the still-solid parts of the banister and waited for his eyes to clear.

When they did, mages were picking themselves up off the ground, eyes darting to the Breach. Cullen hurried down to the floor, seeing Cassandra already moving towards a small dust-covered form in the middle of the floor. Solas followed the Seeker a little more carefully.

“Austeja?” Cullen heard Cassandra say quietly, reaching her hand towards the form. It stirred and twitched, and slowly – oh too slowly – she lifted her head, and shook dust off herself. It was only then that he looked up, towards the sky.

It was gone.

He hurried forward again, as Cassandra helped pull the Herald to her feet. She looked tired as she turned back, and he started to reach forward for her arm before noticing that his hands were bleeding, probably cut when the railing broke. Austeja smiled weakly at him, then looked down and tutted before taking one of his hands in her own.

“What were you doing, quarrying?” she scolded gently, bringing the lightest brush of power to her fingertips. He pulled back.

“No, no,” Cullen said quietly. “You’re exhausted, you should—“

“I’m not going to let just anyone patch up the Commander of the Inquisition,” she retorted, brushing her fingers ever-so-lightly over his palm, first one, than the other. After checking over her handiwork, she let her fingers linger for just a moment as she grinned up at him. His heart did a bit of a flip, and he felt the barest tinge of color come into his neck. “There we go,” she said. “Good as new.”

With her coat swinging Austeja trotted off towards Solas, following the flood of mages leaving the ruined temple. Cullen glanced at Cassandra, who had the slightest hint of a smile playing over her usually taciturn face. “Not a word, Seeker,” he grumbled.

“Of course not, Commander,” she replied, lip twitching up as she followed the Herald. Cullen grumbled under his breath, glanced back up at the swirling sky, and followed.

#

The festivities were light that night, mages and Templars and villagers alike celebrating the closing of the Breach. Austeja sat on the low wall in front of the Chantry, kicking her feet against the stone. She wanted to join in the festivities but felt it’d be out of place – so many, especially now after the Breach was closed, stared at her in awe and wonder. Even now, as they danced and sang and drank, someone would occasionally glance her way and their gaze would change, just for a moment, before they returned to the festivities.

She glanced down at the mark on her hand, quiet, with just the smallest of faint green glows. She’d never be like them again, not even the rest of the mages. For a moment she felt completely, unequivocally alone.

“So,” a voice said, and Cullen plopped down beside her. “Hell of a day.”

She laughed, a single quiet “heh” that summed up her feelings. “Halfway there, I suppose. Probably less than that.” Austeja rested her hand back on her leg with a sigh. “After all, we’ve still got whoever killed the Divine, the thousands of rifts across Thedas—”

“Hey,” he replied, gripping her shoulder for the briefest moment. “That can all get taken care of tomorrow.”

“I suppose so.” She kicked her feet again. “You ever dance?”

Cullen laughed. “No, not particularly my thing.”

“Good. Not mine either.”

“Commander!” One of the few on-duty men called over the party, waving to him. “One of the watchmen reporting in, sir!”

Cullen sighed, and grinned at her. “Duty calls, Lady Herald.” He popped off the wall and started through the revelers.

As he disappeared she stood, staring up at the swirling sky silently. So that was it, then? The entire thing felt anticlimactic, the buildup almost farcical. They had no more answer, no clearer story. The Divine was still dead, the Elder One was still a mystery …

“Solas confirms that the Heavens are scarred, but calm.” She almost jumped when Cassandra joined her, hands folded behind her back. “The Breach is sealed.” the Seeker looked up, and Austeja followed her gaze to the swirling clouds.

“It’s somethin’, at least,” Austeja muttered.

“There are still rifts, and many questions … but this _was_ a victory. And, word of your heroism has spread.” Cassandra almost seemed amused. Austeja rubbed her arm.

“We wouldn’t have been able to do this without the mages, Cass. Luck just put me at the center.”

“A strange kind of luck. I’m not sure if we need more or less.”

Austeja chuckled. “Less, in my opinion.”

“But you’re right. This was a victory of alliance. And with the Breach closed, that alliance _will_ need new –”

 “C’mon, Cass. Take a couple minutes off, all right? Take a break. Grab some drinks. Find a nice-looking former Templar and let him swing you around the fire a bit.”

Cass made a quiet hemming noise that she thought _could_ be a laugh. “I’m not entirely sure I know how to ‘take a break,’ Herald, but I’ll see what I can do. And I’m sure you have your own ‘nice-looking former Templar’ to swing you around the fire, hm?”

Austeja had just started to take a drink of the cold ale she’d been passed probably an hour ago and sputtered. “What?!”

“Oh? Have I been misreading the _longing_ glances you two have been passing one another?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, I mean, he’s a Templar – or former rather – and I mean I’m a former Circle mage, th-that’s the exact type of thing that could nev– what the hell is that?”

Cassandra’s head jerked up as Austeja pointed to the hills outside the village, just as the Chantry bell behind them began to peal. They could hear Cullen yelling the call to arms below, and Cass’ hand fell to her sword.

“What the—”

“Everyone without a weapon, into the Chantry!” Austeja yelled, dropping off her ledge into the revelers below. “Everyone with one, to the gates! Move!”

Dorian appeared at her shoulder, staff in hand. “It’s never very quiet in the South, is it?” he asked quietly. As they jogged to the gates the rest of the group fell in around them, Iron Bull dragging his band along with him.

They looked at least one and a half times drunk.

“You expecting guests?” the big qunari drawled, axe hefted across his shoulders.

“Not this many, I’d wager.” Varric loaded a bolt onto Bianca as Solas passed Austeja a staff. “They don’t seem particularly celebratory, either.”

“This doesn’t look good,” Blackwall murmured, and Austeja couldn’t help but agree.

They found Cullen near the gates, pushing men into lines on the steps. “One watchguard reporting,” he said, without waiting. “It’s a massive force, the bulk’s over the mountain.”

“Under what banner?” Josephine looked surprisingly disheveled, hair falling out of her usually immaculate braid. She tucked some behind her ear self-consciously

“Ferelden? King Alistair wasn’t too happy back in Redcliffe.” Austeja gripped her staff tightly.

Cullen seemed in shock, shaking his head. “None.”

“What?”

Something heavy banged on the village gates, once, twice, making them all wince. Austeja moved back into action.

“Varric, get the villagers and anyone who’s not fit to fight back to the Chantry,” she said, voice wavering. “Vivienne, Josie, would you mind helping him—“

“Not at all, dear.”

“Of course.” She barely heard them leave. Something banged on the door again.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” a voice called. A young voice. Austeja bounded down the steps, the guard opening the gates.

“Watch out!” Cullen dove in front of her, blocking the path of a large, bulky man in a pointed helmet a moment before the he fell with a gurgle – behind him, a youth in tattered clothing and a metal helmet with a wide leather brim that obscured most of his face. Cullen didn’t move from in front of her, and she huffed and stepped around him. The commander followed.

“Austeja—” Solas started, stepping down after her. It seemed the impetus for everyone else to move. “This—”

“I’m Cole,” the youth interrupted, hands clenching into fists. “I came to warn you. To help.” He pointed back at the men streaming down the mountains. “People are coming to hurt you. ……you probably already –”

“What’s going on?!” she interrupted, glancing back up at the hills. He stepped closer.

“The Templars come to kill you,” he whispered.

“What!?” Cullen stepped forward again, sending the youth stepping back. “Is this their response for our alliance with the mages? Just … attacking—”

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him?” He turned to stare back at Austeja with his pale eyes. “He knows you. You took his mages.” He turned, and pointed. “There.”

“Samson …” Cullen hissed as he squinted into the distance, as two figures – one short, one tall – took the rock Cole pointed at. “But the Elder One …”

“Looks like an ugly bastard,” Dorian muttered.

“He’s very angry that you took his mages,” Cole said quietly, taking a few steps back.

“Cullen,” Austeja breathed. “Give me a plan. Anything.”

“Haven is no fortress – we must control the battle. You hit them with everything we’ve got, I’ll take care of things here.” He turned back to his men. Austeja moved into action.

“Cass, Blackwall, take Solas, Sera, and Dorian over to the left trebuchet. Aim it at the mountain – we’ll bury these assholes.” All five nodded with a surprising lack of lip from Sera and sprinted for the other trebuchet. “Bull, your lot is here with me –”

“I want to help!” Cole protested. She nodded.

“All right, and you. We’ll hold this trebuchet.”

When she turned she realized Varric was back, grimly holding Bianca. “Madame de Fer and Lady Josephine do not, apparently, need my help,” he grumbled.

“You heard the plan?”

“Well enough.”

After the first wave of men while Krem pulled the trebuchet back, Varric kicked one of the dead Templars. “Ugh. Red lyrium.”

“That’s bad.”

“You’re telling me.” He grabbed a long piece of wood and poked at one of the pieces of fiery red crystal. “Andraste’s ass, is it _inside_ him?”

Austeja poked at it with the blade on her staff, curling her lip. “Gross.”

“Next wave coming, kids,” Bull called back over his shoulder. “Let ‘er rip, Krem.”

Krem kicked the release, and the trebuchet launched. Far ahead a shower of snow and bodies launched into the air, and the big qunari laughed. Even Austeja let herself breathe a sigh of relief.

“We got this one, boss,” Bull said, punching her arm a little more gently than she’d thought. “You get to the other one, they ain’t firing.”

“You got this?”

“Hell yeah.“

They jogged away, ignoring the roars from the Chargers as they engaged another wave of Templars.

The other trebuchet had hardly been cranked back, the others hard beset by raging Templars. They barely broke stride, Cole disappearing and Austeja immediately calling lightning to her fingers, electrifying a Templar’s armor and frying him alive inside it as she headed for the controls. She gripped the wheel, using all her strength to turn it. The Chargers’ trebuchet fired again, with a raucous chorus of yells.

Cassandra appeared next to her, stabbing her sword into the wooden platform. “Move!” she barked, and Austeja stumbled out of the way as the Seeker cranked the wheel like it had been recently greased.

“You make it look easy,” Austeja said, waving her hand and bringing a barrier around the both of them.

“I do use a sword and shield,” Cassandra grunted, turning the wheel again.

She helped Dorian roast another pair of Templars sneaking up on Blackwall.

“Ready to fire!” Cassandra called, and Austeja kicked the trigger. The big machine lurched, sending both women stumbling. Austeja jerked, spinning to watch as the rock sailed up, and up, and straight and true into the mountain … and the snow began to slide, sheets and sheets into the paths the Templars were using to reach Haven.

Someone – Sera she thought – laughed, and Varric punched her forearm from the step next to her. She almost missed a dark shape taking flight off the mountain, but both her and the dwarf saw it about the same time, their faces falling almost simultaneously.

“Off the engines!” she yelled, hoping to the Maker that the Chargers heard. They’d barely cleared it did the engine explode in flame, the beat of wings announcing the dragon’s … no, she had seen dragons, once or twice. This was not a dragon, but something else, possibly something worse –

“Make for the gates!” She scrambled for purchase to pull herself off the ground, Blackwall almost literally pulling her to her feet and dragging her into a run. Dorian blasted open the door of the blacksmith’s shop as they ran by, the smith grabbing some valuables and joining them in their mad dash for the village gates. They caught the tail end of one of Bull’s horns passing through as Cullen waved them in. He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, the doors slamming closed behind them.

“Pull everyone back to the Chantry,” he ordered. She nodded, still gasping for air. “It’s the only building that might …” He let go of her. “At this point … just make them work for it.”

“Search the village,” Austeja passed on, still breathless. “And hurry.”

#

They were out of options, that was the long and short of it. Cullen wasn’t wasting words on that. Austeja rested her head in her hands, dragging her palms over her eyes. Cole called it an archdemon … but that would mean a Blight. The Fifth had barely ended, just ten years ago. There couldn’t be another Blight … not now. Not so soon.

This was not how she’d thought to die.

 “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole asserted, when Cullen reacted rather predictably to the announcement. “He only wants the Herald.”

She lowered her hands, glancing at Cullen, then at the others hovering in the back of the Chantry, trying desperately to destroy or remove records. “Then I’ll hand myself over, if it’ll save the village. The Inquisition.”

“Aus—“ Cullen started.

“It won’t. He wants to kill you. Nothing else matters, but he’ll kill them anyway.” Cole lowered his voice, returning his attention to the dying Chancellor Roderick. “I don’t like him.”

“You—Austeja.” She wasn’t sure Cullen had ever used her name before, and he gently gripped her pauldrons. “There is nothing that makes this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the last trebuchet, cause one last slide.”

“They’re too close,” she said quietly, barely audible over the roaring in her ears. “It’d kill us all.”

“But we can decide how we die. Not many get that choice.”

She felt like her knees would buckle beneath her. This wasn’t a choice. There were too many innocents, too many people just caught in the crossfire. Over the roaring she heard Roderick describe a path, accessible from the Chantry, how it must have been Andraste, an assertion that she was …

“Can we do it, Cullen?” she asked quietly.

He drew a deep breath. “Possibly. If he shows us the path. But someone needs to reach the last trebu—“

“I’ll do it,” she said. “If he wants me, he can try to get me. It’ll distract him, give you time to reach the tree line.”

“Austeja,” he said softly. “Your escape?” She shook her head, and forced the bravest smile she thought she’d ever worn. He swallowed. “Perhaps you’ll surprise it. Find a way.”  

“Perhaps,” she whispered. “Just get them out of here. Too many did not volunteer to die here today.”

He nodded, and passed orders to some of the nearby soldiers. Some – a qunari, a mage, a Ferelden, a few others – stepped forward to join her. Cole helped Roderick turn and limp towards the path. Cullen turned back, and she waved them towards the door. “Austeja—”

Before she could think she stepped forward, wrapping her hands around the back of his head and desperately pulling his lips to hers. Cullen jerked back, then firmly gripped her waist and pulled her into his chest. She stepped back.  

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I would have never forgiven myself.”

Without another word she moved for the doors, motioning for the volunteers to follow her. They did, leaving Cullen standing alone in the hall, mouth dry and hands trembling.

#

The qunari helped her twist the trebuchet into place, finally, and just before she spotted the dragon/archdemon/whatever. “Loren!” she yelled, motioning him out of the way. The big qunari dove, but let out a harsh roar as he was engulfed in flame. She flew off her feet, slamming into the ground. Air left her lungs in a harsh whoosh as she tried to push herself up, get back to the trebuchet… She struggled to breathe, a sudden sense of urgency screaming for the former Circle mage to flee as she finally hauled herself to her feet.

Oh. _Maker’s breath_ , she thought, stepping away from the thing stalking towards her, tall and thin, rage flickering in his? eyes and red lyrium growing from his chest and face. She staggered back, for the briefest second forgetting why she was out staring down this thing. As she did the ground shook, the dragon galloping towards her, stopping mere feet from her as she staggered back again. Her heart hammered in her chest, blood roaring in her ears, and she gripped her staff as if it were the last anchor tying her to the ground.

And somehow, more than anything, she realized that they _stank_. Harsh, acrid, disgusting. The dragon thrust his maw towards her and she brandished her staff, blade side up. There were stories of adventurers, of Pentaghasts, killing dragons from inside the dragon’s mouth, thrusting a blade into its brain. She prepared, fighting to keep herself from panicking.

“Enough!” She’d almost forgotten about the Elder One behind her and spun, struggling to keep them both in view. But the dragon seemed to back down, content to cut off her only escape.

“Pretender,” the tall thing growled, in a voice too disturbingly human. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.”

She glanced back at the dragon, then back at the Elder One. No one had signaled her. She had to keep them talking, keep them from killing her outright. “W-what are you?” she forced out, still gripping her staff like an anchor. “Why do this?”

“Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are, what I _was_.” He drifted forwards – she didn’t think he really walked, so much as drifted. She stepped back. “Know me, and knew what you have pretended to be.” She stepped away towards the dragon and it roared at her, making her stumble back.

She felt like she was in a terrible game of keep-away.

“Exalt the Elder One. The will that is Corypheus.” He extended a long, clawlike finger at her. “You will kneel.”

She darted her tongue out to wet her lips, glancing back at the dragon and then back at Corypheus. “Not on your weird undead life, buddy,” she snarled. She couldn’t tell if the response amused him, or simply didn’t phase him.

“You will resist,” he growled. “You will always resist. It matters not.”

Corypheus drew a round sphere from … somewhere, clenching it in his left hand. Something about it – about him – seemed vaguely familiar, and the mark on her hand itched.

“I am here for the anchor.” This time he definitely strode, purposefully, and Austeja stumbled backwards away from him and the dragon, trying to move closer to the trebuchet. “The process of removing it begins now.”

He reached forward and her hand exploded into a wreath of green light and a pain the likes of which she’d never felt before. She gripped her wrist, gasping as she fought to stay standing. “It is your fault, ‘Herald,’” he mocked. “You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose.”

Austeja closed her eyes, lowering her head as she willed herself to silence. Her fingers tightened around her wrist as the pain exploded again, the slightest whimper crossing her lips.

“I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as ‘touched,’ what you _flail_ at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens!” It grew impossibly, inconceivably worse, and she collapsed onto her knees, tucking into herself with a sob. “And you used the anchor to undo _my_ work! The gall!”

She swallowed bile and raised her head. “What was the point of this thing then!” she choked out, her voice harsh and grating in her own ears. She may as well know, if she was going to end up as dragon bait. The dragon screamed again and she thought small pieces of spittle and flesh coated her back.

“To bring certainty where there is none,” Corypheus replied, rather matter-of-factly for anything so damned ugly. “For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.”

The pain stopped, albeit briefly – she gasped as she felt herself leave the ground, his long-fingered hand wrapping around her left wrist and hauling her off her feet, her glowing, aching hand to his eye level. She tried to struggle, but his grip was like iron – far sturdier than suggested, far worse than suggested.

He smelled even worse this close.

“I once breached the Fade in the name of another,” he growled. “To serve the Old Gods of the Empire in person.” He hauled her higher, this time so she was at eye level, and she grit her teeth almost as hard as she could. “I found only chaos and corruption. For a thousand years I was confused – no more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world.”

Corypheus pulled her closer, and she struggled to jerk away again. She felt something in her shoulder pop and nearly blacked out, stars and blackness starting to swim before her eyes. “Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, _and it was empty._ ”

“Go to hell,” she hissed, starting to bring her right hand up in a vain attempt to break his grasp. But he flung her back into the trebuchet, her left shoulder striking the wood first with a loud, agonizing crack and the sharp, stabbing hiss of pain. Her vision tunneled, and she was terrified that she’d black out from the pain and not be able to fire the engine … She fumbled at her belt for a healing potion, finding one shattered on her belt. The broken glass cut her finger, which felt strangely painless and as if it was happening to someone else. She thought that was probably a bad thing. Everything hurt, and yet, the pain was a dull roar compared to the adrenaline that was overloading her.

“The anchor is permanent,” Corypheus growled. “You have spoiled it with your stumblings.”

Austeja forced herself to her feet, grabbing for Ser Jonathon’s greatsword where it lay on the platform and clumsily brandishing it with one hand. Corypheus and the dragon drew ever closer, the dragon somehow managing to look excited, and hungry. Her hand shook.

“So be it. I will begin again, find another way to deliver this world to the nation and _god_ it requires.”

“You’re insane,” she hissed, a flash of light catching her eye far above the palisade. A flaming arrow? Was that the signal? Well, if it wasn’t … she inched her way back along the trebuchet with her left arm hanging limp and agonizing at her side.

“And you,” he growled. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”

“Kinda figured that,” Austeja said. “Why do you think I kept you talking?” The briefest flicker of confusion arched over Corypheus’ face. “All hail the victors, big guy.”

She dropped the sword and kicked the trigger, ducking around the trebuchet to flee as snow rumbled down into the village. She couldn’t outrun it, but she could definitely give it a try – her foot sank through something just as the avalanche roared to a crescendo behind her, and she fell into darkness.

#

Austeja wasn’t sure just how long she’d been unconscious. Waking was certainly unpleasant – she was covered by a thin dusting of snow, shivering in the wet air. She couldn’t remember ever being so cold.

As she beat snow off her, mostly a flailing motion, she stared up at the ceiling. Rock. A cave, then. Her memories slowly returned – the dragon/archdemon thing, the darkspawn thing … Corypheus? Whatever. Part of the ceiling was wood, and she realized that the avalanche must have pushed the trebuchet over the hole she’d fallen in and saved her from being buried alive. That was … good, she guessed.

As her senses kept returning she became acutely, terrifyingly aware of a feeling of _absence_ and perhaps, even more-so, a roaring sense of pain far greater than when she’d barely blocked a Templar rogue’s knives and nearly lost her eye, or fallen from that tree her older brother had dared her to climb at seven and she’d fractured her arm in three places. Austeja slowly, fearfully turned her head. Her left arm was flailed limply out, and for a moment she feared it was detached before she remembered Corypheus had throwing her into the trebuchet, the feeling of her shoulder and collarbone shattering, barely maintaining enough sense and will to drag herself up long enough to fire the weapon.

Andraste’s _ass_ it hurt.

Austeja fumbled at her belt with her good hand. Most of the potions lining her belt were shattered, but her bloody fingers crawled over a couple lyrium potions and a single healing potion. She tugged it off her belt and uncorked it with her teeth, then downed the entire thing in one painful swallow.

A spasm ripped across her chest and she cried out, momentarily not caring that the Templars might be hunting her – the pain roared to excruciating as the elfroot took hold and she shrieked again, contorting and kicking her feet as she sobbed until the pain subsided to a dull hiss.

She pulled herself to her knees, biting back another sob as her arm and shoulder swung limply. She found her staff nearby, snapped cleanly in half – it must have fallen off the trebuchet, or been washed in by the avalanche. She used the blade to cut a wide strip off her cloak, with liberal use of her legs and teeth, and fashioned it into a makeshift sling that she carefully, and painfully, placed her arm into. She didn’t know how to set it. Hell, she couldn’t focus long enough to even try to heal it, more than pushing back the pain. The mark – the anchor – glowed merrily up at her from her numb hand.

“Piss off,” she grumbled.

She used some of her precious little energy to repair her staff, leaning heavily on it as she dragged herself into the tunnel that she hoped led to freedom. Wind howled down it, freezing her face as she pressed on, and she dug her staff blade into the rock to pull herself up the steep passageway.

Who had been with her? Loren, the qunari mercenary, carrying a greataxe. He’d been the last to die, done in by the dragon at the very end. Rahnaral and Thada, two archers and the last survivors of the elves at the Conclave. The big red thing had gotten them – Rahnaral had leapt in front of _her_ , saving her life. At least for now. Martin, Justinia’s last remaining bodyguard. A Templar had beheaded him as he tried to down a healing potion. María, a Rivani-born force mage from the Circle in Kirkwall – a Templar archer had gotten her, right through the heart. And Ser Jonathon, still fiercely loyal to the Ferelden Chantry, mowed down by the big red thing as he drew it away from the trebuchet and allowed her and Loren the chance to finish aiming it.

They’d all volunteered. “To die with the Herald,” they’d said. Even if she’d clashed with the fanatically loyal Ferelden … they’d been good people. Far better than her. Too good to die for a false prophet.

She wanted to cry.

What was she even doing? She was probably hours behind them, injured, with who-knew-what out there. A lone mage, even in perfect health with a working weapon, was an easy target for anything. Wolves, bears, Templars, that big furry humanoid everyone in the Circle had sworn was real. She should probably lay down and let the cold take her before starvation or something living did. She was ridiculously inept on her own … and hypothermia was just like falling asleep, was it not? It’d be calm, easy. Peaceful…

But she kept going, searching for a reason – any – to keep going. She paused once and brushed cold fingers over her lips, remembering how Cullen had reacted when she kissed him so desperately. She forced herself on.

The mark kept glowing and she tore off more fabric from her cloak, wrapping it around her numb hand. It stopped twinkling at her.

The wind grew more blustery as she climbed carefully, and when she reached a whirl of white she first though it was a snowbank before realizing it was a blizzard. Her heart sank impossibly lower. She decided to wait, started some magefire a ways back from the opening, and wrapped what was left of her cloak around her as she sat down and waited.

Sometime later she awoke with a start, noticing that the blizzard had died down and the snowstorm was still furious, but safer, and superimposed on a dawn sky. How long had she been asleep? Her gut growled angrily at her, almost in answer. She used her staff to pull herself to her feet and, still worried about Corypheus and his Templars, staggered out into the snow.

Briefly she wondered if they’d had the mercy to drag Alexius out of his cell, and turned back to look down at where she thought Haven was.

There was nothing below her, just a vast field of white far below where the small village had been nestled. She squinted and thought she saw tiny pinpricks of light against the snow. Above the white patch, the dragon drifted lazily on a current. No, they were still looking … probably for her. Corypheus must have decided he would not be satisfied unless he had her corpse. Smart, even if he was ugly as sin.

She forced herself onwards.

Eventually she couldn’t see the lights anymore, as daylight grew and the sun rose higher. She found a cluster of cold campfires, half-covered by snow, but couldn’t tell how long ago they’d been warm. Her memory was starting to grow blurry as she trekked farther and farther into the mountains. Had she kissed the Commander? Who’d died next to her? María she remembered … Ser Jonathon … Loren? Laren? She grimaced and pushed herself forwards, forcing herself to recite lists of spells, parts of the Chant she’d been forced to memorize before her magic had manifested, types and weaknesses of demons as she chose a path and …

 _Maker … Andraste … **whoever**_ , she begged after falling into hip deep snow again, summoning small bursts of fire to clear her route. _If you’re there … come **on**. Please._

#

They moved most of the night and into midday, finally stopping in a valley nestled between several safe-looking mountains.

At each campsite they’d lingered a little less. No one would deny their glances back towards where they’d come, hoping against hope for another miracle. No one wished to discuss the major blow to morale they’d taken with the loss of the Herald, but it was certainly palpable. At some point the four remaining leaders decided they needed to stop, and rest, and regroup … and pray that Andraste’s Herald had somehow, against all odds, survived.

Cullen helped set up the tents and corral the mounts they’d saved. Few looked him in the eye and he wondered if they blamed him for it – if he’d been faster, if he’d gone out instead of her …

If only their few looks didn’t mirror his own thoughts.

He passed by the main group once or twice, nearly all of them looking rather downcast. Vivienne seemed reasonably normal – _Orlesians_ , he thought. Even the Iron Bull seemed quieter than usual. Most were clustered around their own fires, some reading, some cleaning weapons, Varric sitting to the side recalibrating Bianca and looking like someone had brought up the Deep Roads.

Cullen sighed and returned to the rear of camp, closest to Haven, and leaned against a tent pole as he stared into the distance. He barely moved when Leliana leaned on the other side quietly, arms crossed.

“We cannot afford to wait long,” she said quietly.

“We’ve been on the move for nearly a day,” he replied. “We should have given ourselves enough distance from the Elder One, if she didn’t bury him.” He sighed. “What could that thing have even been?”

“Clara – Queen Elissa Theirin told me of a speaking darkspawn before. From what I saw and have been told, it may have been one of them.”

“Why would the Templars ally with a darkspawn?”

“Desperation, perhaps? The world has gone mad.”

They stood in silence for a while, staring back. “Do you think…” he finally asked. Leliana straightened.

“I must be hopeful,” she replied as she left. Cullen stared south.

That was about all they had now.

#

Austeja dug her staff into the crevice between rocks and pulled herself up again, grimacing when it jarred her arm. She’d been on the move for about six hours, she thought. The sun was high above her, meaning it was about noon, and it wasn’t snowing anymore. The air was crisp and fresh, biting into her lungs with every breath. She kicked snow off a rock and sat down, propping her staff in her elbow and bringing her hand in front of her. A small flicker of fire appeared in it, and she fought to warm herself up.

She’d seen no sign of pursuit – either Corypheus had been scared off by the avalanche, or his men were still combing the village, or they were following her and would probably catch up with her in the next few hours if he had his monster and was flying. And in this condition, there was nothing she could do – maybe bleed at them. Break her other shoulder or something. Glare strongly. Admonish, perhaps.

Her stomach had stopped growling at her, and instead she felt a little sick. She scooped up a handful of snow after extinguishing her fire and forced herself to eat it, quickly calling up more fire to warm back up. _Three weeks without food_ , she thought dully. _Three days without water._ She doubted she’d be able to find food in three weeks, but she could at least hope for a mountain town that wouldn’t kill her once they found out she was a mage. Haven couldn’t be the only backwater out here, right?

Loren, Jonathon, María, Martin, Rahnaral, Thada, she forced herself to remember as she pulled herself back to her feet. Her soles felt like one giant blister. Cullen, Varric, Cassandra …

It was that or singing vulgar bard songs she’d picked up in Haven, she supposed. She listed everyone she could think of that had made it out, then her horses, then the leaders of Orlais, Ferelden, various Free Marches cities, Rivain, Antiva …

Somehow she wound up on the song the bard had written about Sera, half-humming, half-singing it under her breath, then an old children’s song, one she’d heard about the Hero of Ferelden, another about Hawke … she thought she might have sprained her ankle at some point when she fell into a frozen creek, and had to take time to dry out her shoe lest she lose the foot entirely. Winter Festival songs, songs about love and death and fate and part of the Chant at Light …

At some point around dusk the temperature fell again, and so did she. She had yet to find any sign of the Inquisition, and she was certain the snowstorms shouldn’t have covered it all up this soon. Austeja’s foot hit a jagged rock and she twisted to fall heavily on her uninjured arm, though it still jarred her shoulder and she cried out. She lay without moving for some time, sobbing quietly into her sleeve. She was tired and hungry and alone and scared … even after the rebellion, either when her Circle had fled or when that Templar had nearly taken her eye, she hadn’t expected it to end like this. Somehow she’d still imagined herself dying in the Circle, probably unknown, never having used magic on anything more alive than some glass or something.

She curled up, ignoring the cold of the snow as it seeped through her cloak and jacket. Why even bother? She’d probably gone in entirely the wrong direction, despite her best efforts. She’d be wandering these mountains for days if she kept fighting, always hoping that they’d be just over the next ridge and always being disappointed …

Austeja wasn’t sure how long she’d lain there before her usual stubbornness kicked in. If she didn’t keep going, if she didn’t find them, how else was anyone going to close the rifts? Hang Corypheus, without her there would still be rifts, demons would still pour out and kill people who’d never asked for it. She held up her hand and called more fire, struggling to warm back up. She pulled herself up using her staff again, grunting with the effort, and stood for a few moments before looking back up.

Standing in front of her was a woman.

It was tall and lean, and she was fairly sure it was nude. More than anything it was glowing, a bright gold against the snow and the black sky. And, it was floating.

Everything Austeja had ever been taught told her to head quickly in the opposite direction. Sure, the heavens were scarred and there were good spirits as well as bad, but they were still to be avoided at all costs. The woman extended a hand to her, beckoned, and drifted away.

“I’m hallucinating,” she murmured. “Or I’m dead. Or …” She swallowed, and set her mouth in a thin line. What the hell else did she have going for her?

She reached out with her staff and pulled herself towards the spirit. It seemed pleased and drifted a little further back, beckoning again. When she pulled herself forward again, the spirit turned and began to drift in what she thought was a northwesterly direction. Austeja lumbered after it.

“What are you?” she called. It didn’t reply. It seemed familiar, somehow, like she’d seen it before, an idea that did little to comfort her. She still wasn’t even sure why she was following it, except that her mind was dull from exhaustion and pain and hunger, and she was cold and desperate and scared. She thought that if – _when_ – she could think straight, she’d be very angry with herself.

She fell a few more times, each time having to exert even more will to stand again. Each time the spirit hovered, waiting for her to rise. Sometimes she had to crawl, using her staff and her arm to help her drag herself through the snow. She started reciting names again, humming and singing songs to keep her mind off her growing physical and emotional numbness, as she started losing track of her pain and her feet and her hands.

The spirit, or hallucination, or whatever never spoke.

She didn’t know how long she stumbled after the thing, pain and fear and a thankful numbness spurring her on. If she stopped to warm herself or to rest the spirit lingered ahead of her, waiting patiently for her to move again. It felt like days – but the night progressed, didn’t diminish, so it could only have been hours. She was starting to feel numb, completely, like she’d slept for too long and woke up much too late. Sleeplessness? Pain? Hunger? She didn’t know anymore. She didn’t even particularly care.

And then she fell again. This time it was different though. She raised her foot high, expecting it to crunch through another layer of thick snow, and instead it found no resistance. It made her stumble, and exhaustion made her fall back to the ground. For a moment, as she was falling, she suspected she’d found a cliff and was plummeting to the earth far, far below.

She wasn’t. Her face and arm hit hard-packed, rough snow. She didn’t move for a second, then lifted her head, slowly, afraid that the Templars had circled back around her and this was them.

She wasn’t wrong in thinking it was a campsite. She saw a few campfires that glowed with the remnants of their embers, the signs that a large group of people had camped there and left sometime recently. She lifted her head further, and realized that she’d fallen into the walkway of what had been a column of people and mounts – she spotted a few horse hoof-prints and lots of booted feet in her general vicinity. A fragment of cloth waved from a snowbank a little bit to her right, and she pushed herself up and grabbed it.

It wasn’t large but the tiny bit of the insignia she could read was clear. The Inquisition.

Austeja looked up at the spirit, still hovering and glowing in front of her. It turned and pointed behind itself, at the trail that stretched into the mountains, and slowly faded away.

#

Cullen had gotten a couple hours of sleep, all his mind could bear to let him before it resumed flogging him for his mistake of losing the Herald. No one else seemed any more tired – a few people slept here or there, keeping close to the fires, but most sat where they’d been a few hours ago.

They would have to move at dawn. He wrapped his coat a little tighter. They’d have to find somewhere to regroup and rebuild … and figure out what to do now that they’d lost their ability to close the rifts. He tried to judge the time – likely a few hours past midnight, if he had to guess. Josephine was dozing against a wagon nearby, her ever-present scribes’ board clutched unlit in one hand, and he found a heavy blanket that he settled over her. She mumbled something that may have been a thanks.

Cullen glanced back at the pass they had just come through, almost unconsciously, and turned back towards the rest of camp. It took him a second for his mind to register that something had changed, and he snapped his head back. Silhouetted between the two mountains was a small figure, too distant to fully make out, but he couldn’t help the small leap of hope his heart did.

“Cassandra,” he called, resting his hand on his sword as he started forward. The Seeker joined him, and he pointed out the figure. They didn’t say anything, just traded a look and started back up into the pass. As they got closer they could make out a person leaning heavily on a staff, then a woman –

“It can’t be,” Cassandra breathed. Cullen didn’t answer, but broke into a run up the snow-covered slope. No, no, it couldn’t be. She must have died in the avalanche, like they’d thought, or while trying to find them, or …

It wasn’t until he got closer and caught a flash of red the same color as her hair that he let himself go. “It’s her!” he yelled back, run turning into a mad sprint. Austeja sank to her knees, a grateful sob breaking through her lips. He threw himself down in front of her, desperately looking her over for injury.

“Cullen?” she breathed, her eyes dull and unfocused. He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her gently, catching sight of a makeshift sling under her cloak.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

“I …” Her eyes rolled back and she started to fall limp. Cullen caught her, carefully sliding his arm under her knees and getting to his feet. She was freezing.

“We’re going to need a healer,” he said. Cassandra glanced between them wordlessly, face scribbled over with shock, and simply nodded before sliding back down the pass in a half-run, half-skid. Cullen followed a little more carefully, ignoring the shivers that started to overtake him, protesting the freezing cold. “Hang on,” he breathed, pulling her a little closer.

By the time he reached the camp he was certain everyone had already been roused judging by the crowd that met them. Most parted as he came through, beelining for where they’d been taking care of the wounded they’d been able to drag with them. One of the Sisters directed him to a spare cot. He had hardly laid her down when they started to shoo him away, already starting to remove some of her frozen and soaked outerwear. People had already begun to gather with cloaks and blankets

“We should make sure it _is_ her,” someone said – Dorian, he realized. There was a quiet moment of silence. Solas moved first, pushing aside Cullen’s coat to the makeshift sling that held her left arm.

“There is one simple way to find out,” he said quietly, turning her hand extremely gently. A rough strip of dark cloth was wrapped around her palm, right where the mark was, and the elf gently unwrapped it.

A flash of green met them, the slow twinkle of the mark on her palm shining up at them. It almost seemed that the entire crowd breathed a sigh of relief, and the Sisters began to shoo them away more doggedly. Cullen turned just as Enchanter Fiona pushed through, several mages in tow.

“Do you know what—“

“I think her arm is in a sling, I don’t know what’s –“

“Thank you, Commander.” Fiona pushed through the people who had filled in between them and the cot, her mages following. Cullen stared after them, feeling awkward and helpless. He barely resisted when someone guided him back to one of the tents.

“You should get some rest, Cullen,” Cassandra said quietly, and left him.

#

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d been asleep once he’d hit a bedroll. But the sun was up when he emerged, the crowd around the injured tent largely dispersed. He avoided the part of camp actively involved in breakfast activities and ducked into the tent, easily finding the Herald’s cot by the pile of cloaks and blankets still stacked on it. He could just make his out by the giant fur mantle that peeked out of the bottom. One of the mages was dozing on a nearby cot, and shook it off as he approached. “Commander?” she grumbled, scrubbing at her eyes.

“How is she?”

“She’s sleeping quietly. Her condition’s much improved. And we took care of her shoulder. The arm will be a little weak for a while but should recover completely.”

“What happened?”

“I’m just an apprentice.” Now that she said that, he noted she did look fairly young. Probably even pre-Harrowing. “But they said that her entire shoulder was shattered. They didn’t know how she’d managed to walk through the pain.”

He swallowed. “Are you just keeping an eye on her?” She nodded. “Go get some rest. I’ll take over.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” She thanked him and headed off, and Cullen settled down on the empty cot next to hers. Austeja was still asleep, the pile of cloaks and blankets barely rising and falling. He sighed and scrubbed his arm across his eyes.

Just about the time he was considering going to get breakfast, the pile of blankets stirred. He stood and knelt down, gently resting his hand on the blankets.

“Aust—Herald?”

He wasn’t expecting much, but she stirred again. “Cullen?” He found her good hand.

“I’m here.”

She cracked her eyes, and weakly squeezed his hand. “You’re really here,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand and gently tracing out his features.

“Of course I am.”

“Where am I?”

“We’re camped north of Haven. You caught up to us last night.”

“I did? How’d that happen?”

Cullen chuckled. “I don’t know.”

“Were we … where is he? Did he—“ She started to sit up and shrieked in pain, making more than one head jerk in their direction. He quickly cradled her, laying her back down onto the cot as she sobbed.

“They said you almost destroyed your shoulder,” he said gently. “Just rest.”

“I can’t, he –” She grabbed at his arm with her good hand, gripping it hard. He was surprised she had the strength. “I have to … The Elder One, his name—”

“You can tell us la—”

“I can't— he called himself Corphyeus, he said—”

There was a loud _thump_ as something hit the snow, and Cassandra suddenly appeared at the other side of the cot. Cullen was almost frightened at the look in her eyes – it took a lot to shake the Seeker, but that definitely had.

“What did you just say?” she hissed, staring down at her. Austeja swallowed.

“Th-the Elder One, he called himself Corypheus. H-he talked of becoming a god, of claiming the Black City for himself. That the seat of the Maker was empty, tha—”

“Corypheus. You’re sure of it?”

“Cassandra—”

“Yes?”

She grumbled something under her breath and disappeared, striding back across the camp with a forceful purpose while yelling for Varric. They watched her go.

“Does she know something?”

“… looks like.” Cullen smoothed her hair back, readjusting the pile of blankets and cloaks. “Get some rest, alright?”

“We—”

“Let us worry about things for once.”

She nodded, her eyelids drooping. “Cullen?”

“Hm?”

“Stay here?”

He smiled weakly. “Of course.”


End file.
